So there I was, playing an awesome set, the crowd eating out of our hands, whooping, hollering, and here it comes to a screeching halt.  Dressed tip to toe in black.  Black t-shirt, black pants, black shoes with white stripes.  Everything except for my socks.  White socks.  I didn't give a fuck, I didn't figure anyone would show up.  But I was wrong.

Redbone?  What the fuck?

"Redbone?" Mick asks into the microphone, "Redbone?  Who's that?  Is that some sort of musician or something?"

I looked at the man as he dithered.  Long, stringy mullet.  Not the aggressive mullet archetype, but rather the type that was greasy and lived with his mom.  Red baseball cap. Brown safety glasses.  A determined, addled look in the eye behind brown safety fuckin' glasses.

Safety glasses?

"I GOT HIS ALBUM RIGHT IN MY POCKET."  the man said loudly.

Wooh.  Its springtime, someone let the loonies out.  Earlier, I had lent my phone to a drunk with a fresh headwound, neatly tended to by some hosptial.  A cabbie had dropped him off, and he slumped on the bar for awhile before staggering up to me.

"YOU WORK HERE?" he asked.  Probably saw me get my soda from the bar on my own.  Then again, who knows.  He may have been delirious.  I was standing at the snack counter at the time, ordering a grilled cheese and chips for dinner between shows.

"No, I don't work here."  I said.

The man fished in his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper.  Tan skin, bent over and clearly beaten, dark hair, of mexican descent I can only imagine.

On the slip of paper was a phone number.  On top of it read simply one name:  "MONDO".

"Dial this number" he said to me.  I handed him my cell phone.  He took it while I paid for my food.  I figured I could run him down if I needed to, and besides, my cell phone sucks, anyway.  I need a camera phone.  But I probably couldn't let him get away with it on a purely prideful basis.

"MONDO!" he said excitedly into the phone, "MONDO!  Come down here!  Pinsetters!  They got a band!"

And I was touched.  He was inviting his drunk friend to come hear me play.

"a BAND.  A BAND!" he shouted into the phone, then hung up, handing the phone back to me.

I took it from him. "No worries," I said.

"THANKS."  he said, "HERE, BUDDY."  And he pressed fifty cents into my hand.

"You didn't have to do that." I said, and he patted my shoulder as he slouched back to the bar. 

So there I was, on stage, later on, dealing with another moron.  The crowd, which had been rowdy, was paying close attention to the interaction.  And I thought, "I GOTTA' get a picture of THIS guy."

I reached into my vintage brown leather coat pocket, hip length jacket, and grabbed my olympus digital camera.  Shit like this is what camera phones are made for, but I had to make do with what I got.

I clicked the shutter open, and it made its customary grinding noise as the lense extended out.  The Redbone fanatic's eyes got wide as he pieced together what was going down:  photography.

He edged behind the speakers so I couldn't get a clear shot at him, and melted into the crowd.

We played a few more numbers and then got off the stage.  Mick was all coked up, so he went and talked to some girls that had come in and watched.  The rowdies kept drinking.

Later on, we sold a bunch of CD's and I signed a half-dozen autographs.  There was a gap in the conversation, and I gushed.

"You guys are great.  Thanks for coming down," I said.  And I realized I sounded like everyone I had ever been around who had given an autograph.  I'm not much of an autograph seeker.  I got a pornstar's once, but I washed my hand.

It was a good show.  I got to play my chrome, nickle plated steel guitar, and it seemed to mesmerize everyone.  They loved it, which is extra special to me because its my pride and joy.  I installed the pickup myself, and went out and got an eq.  I'll play it all the time now.

Plus I got to record several songs that I had been lusting to record.  3 of our best songs, mostly which I wrote.  Broken Man's Blues, Riverside, and Rain.  They didn't come out perfect, but at least I got to hear it.

Later on we followed Mick to a party of his friends and associates.  They were all doing blow, even the kid for whom I was a groupleader at the Resedential Treatment Facility, but I pretty much figured that.  I noticed everyone was disappearing from me to duck into side rooms.  The party ebbed away from me, and I put two-and-two together.  Cocaine is a strange thing.  In the end, its all about itself.

So I left in Mick's dad's truck and got my own mobile. Went home, got there at about five-thirty.  Nice and safe before the sun came up.

I still have Mondo's number.  Wanna give him a call?